Sixth Solstice
by watercolour dreams
Summary: Darcy Lewis always knew that Thor and Jane should be together. Loki acknowledges her matchmaking skills in his own devious way. Set after Thor: The Dark World. Darcy/Loki
1. Presents and Revelations

**Summary**: Blue-coloured presents are one of Darcy's favourite things.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter One<strong>

Presents and Revelations

* * *

><p>Darcy Caitlin Lewis didn't like Christmas. In fact, Darcy Lewis <em>hated <em>Christmas.

It wasn't because of the joviality that smothered New York's streets in snowflakes, coruscating lights and crusading Christmas carollers, nor was it the delighted squeals her younger siblings and cousins elicited when Darcy gave them their presents. No. The reason that Darcy hated Christmas was _because _of the presents.

In fact, it was one present in particular that she had grown to hate. It would appear underneath her Christmas tree every year, or wherever she was, without fail. It would always be wrapped in an azure shimmering paper and tired with a pretty golden ribbon. It never bore the gift-giver's name. Instead, the gift-tags would be addressed to Darcy, wishing her a 'Merry Christmas' followed by an acerbic or witty comment about her present.

The first year that this happened was the first Christmas after Thor had returned to Earth. It had been three weeks after the London calamity with Malekith, or as Darcy liked to call it: 'The Time That Erik Decided to Wear Pants Again', and nineteen days since Jane had snogged Thor brainless on their London apartment balcony.

Darcy, being Darcy, had organised a traditional Christmas dinner to educate the Big Guy about earthly customs.

"If you're gonna stay here Space Man," Darcy had said. "You're gonna have to learn about the best thing ever: Christmas!"

Thor had laughed heartily and said: "We have been celebrating Yule time for centuries, Lady Darcy. Are they not the same?"

"Yes and no," Darcy had said slowly; and as Darcy had continued to detail the differences between Pagan and Christian traditions and why Christmas had replaced Yule as the major winter celebration to the Thunder God, Thor had become indignant, demanding to "meet this Jesus God" so he could show him what it meant to disrespect Asgard's most religious celebration. Jane had laughed sympathetically, while Darcy had told him: "Good luck with that buddy. He's been dead for 2000 years."

Christmas dinner had proceeded nicely. There had been turkey and cranberry sauce, crunchy marinated potatoes, eggnog, plum pudding, glazed ham, roast pheasant and much, much more. There had been enough good to convince Darcy that the food baby she had was twins.

Erik had made terrible dad jokes throughout dinner while Thor had smothered Jane with saccharine words, which had made the physicist blush several shades of vermillion that Darcy hadn't known had existed. Ian, well, he had been Ian—all puppy-dog eyes and bumbling cuteness, and not much more.

Once dinner had been finished, or in Thor's case: devoured, Darcy had yelled "present time!" before rushing to the lounge room where she had proceeded to hand out gifts left, right and centre. Thor had been overly excited at the prospect of receiving presents, especially when he had unwrapped his present from Darcy: a bottle of mead, a Viking cap and a set of miniature figurines of the Avengers coupled with a Christmas card from his fellow Freedom Fighters.

Rambunctiously, Thor had hugged Darcy, who had patted him timidly on the back in return and crooned over the heartfelt messages—"Merry Christmas, from Natasha"—from Rogers, Barton, Banner and co.. Afterwards, Darcy had been pretty sure that Thor had broken one of her ribs (later her doctor had told her three of her ribs were merely bruised and Darcy had gotten to take a month off work, which Darcy had spent watching a lot of _Netflix_ and eating _Ben & Jerry's_).

That was when Darcy had found the blue-coloured parcel underneath the tree. It had been small; three by three inches at most and one to two inches tall. Darcy had not remembered seeing anyone put the present underneath her tree and when she had opened it, she had known that she totally hadn't gotten herself a Christmas present that year. She had been too poor for that shit.

Inside a white leather box had been a silver bracelet with a matching charm, which had been inset with a small blue gem. It rested on the blue velvet lining of the box, glistening in the apartment light.

It had been very beautiful.

"That's a lovely bracelet," Jane had said when she had clasped the jewellery around Darcy's wrist later. "Who's it from?"

"I dunno." Darcy had shrugged. "I was hoping you could tell me."

"Well, I certainly didn't get it for you. And—"

"Erik wouldn't know what pretty looked like even if it hit him in the face." Darcy had paused contemplatively, then had added: "Unless it was a physics equation."

"Darcy!" Jane had exclaimed, affronted by her backhanded insult. "Physics equations happen to be very beautiful."

Darcy had rolled her eyes and had looked at Jane imploringly, who had eventually acquiesced.

"Maybe you have a secret admirer?" Jane had suggested. Her brow had been knitted in that thoughtful way that made Jane look so goddamn adorable.

"A secret admirer who breaks into our apartment to leave me presents? I should check my panties draw to make sure nothing else is missing," Darcy had quipped. "Seriously Jane, I have a _boyfriend_."

"Who you're just toying around with because you don't have the heart to let him down." Darcy and Jane had both frozen in shock.

"I'm sorry! I'm so sorry!" Jane had gushed immediately. Her hands had been cupped remorsefully in front of her mouth. "I am so, so sorry. I really shouldn't have said that."

"No. It's okay. It's okay, Jane." Darcy had reassured Jane with a hug. "It's fine, Jane. Really. It's fine."

"Really?" Jane had asked, eyes wide.

"Really, Jane," Darcy had said firmly, but Darcy had not been able to convince her heart that it had been fine. That night Darcy had taken Ian aside and had broken it off.

"I don't wanna string you along anymore, when all I really want is something like," Darcy had trailed off and Ian had furrowed his brow in concentration.

"Like theirs?" Ian had asked. He had gestured towards Jane and Thor, who had been cuddling on the lounge room couch. They had been watching a replay of _Carols by Candlelight _on the TV and Jane had been answering all of Thor's questions about her life with Science!-Jane enthusiasm. The coupled had been so enthralled with each other that the entire world had been oblivious to them.

Darcy had nodded guiltily.

"Yeah," Darcy had paused. "I'm sorry."

Ian had shaken his head.

"No. I'm sorry," the intern's intern had said sincerely. "I'm sorry I can't give you that fairy tale, but I hope you get it one day, Darcy."

"Thanks, I hope you do too intern."

Ian had smiled, then kissed Darcy on the check before he had returned to the kitchen to continue his conversation with Erik about physics-inspired tie patterns.

Darcy had returned home to New Mexico a week later.

* * *

><p>The next year when Darcy had sat by herself in her dormitory at Culver University on Christmas morning, she had made sure to read the gift tag thoroughly.<p>

After much analysis of the words (To Miss Lewis, a gift to complement your eyes and your mind) Darcy had come to the conclusion that she had been absolutely no closer to discerning who her present-giver was. Nor had she been unnerved that they had know what her eye-colour was. Instead, Darcy had been vexed by the present—another charm for her bracelet, inset with an emerald gem this time; and a leather-bound copy of the _Emma_ by Jane Austen.

This had frustrated Darcy because all she wanted to know was who kept giving her such _awesome _presents.

The third year that the present had appeared underneath her Christmas tree had been the year that Thor and Jane had (finally!) gotten married. Darcy had made sure that she had opened the azure present last, despite her all-consuming urge to rip it open. That year she had received a third charm, inset with a garnet, and a cerise-coloured scarf. Its fabric had been a blend of the finest silk and Darcy had loved it.

That year Darcy had vowed to herself that she would kiss whoever gave her these presents.

On the fourth Christmas Darcy had been backpacking through South-East Asia. That Christmas morning she had woken up to find a neatly-wrapped blue parcel placed at the end of her sleeping bag. Darcy, perturbed by how the parcel could've gotten there, had shoved it to the bottom of her backpack and had vowed to herself she would never open another one of those gifts ever again. This person had to be a professional stalker.

Darcy had lasted five days.

Her curiosity had triumphed and Darcy had furiously opened the paper to find another charm, inset with an orange topaz; and a golden bridge comb. Along the comb's bridge sat four strawflowers, each petal exquisitely carved. Darcy had loved both gifts very much and this had made her angry. Not because she still hadn't know who was her gift-giver, but because she had liked them.

When the fifth Christmas had rolled around, Darcy had decided that she would pull an all-nighter in an attempt to catch this present-giving fiend. So, she had perched herself on her living room couch with a tub of mocha-flavoured ice cream and every season of _Sex and the City_. She had gotten through two and a half seasons before she had fallen asleep.

The next morning Darcy had woken up to find a large, shimmering blue present on her coffee table. Its gift tag had read: 'Nice try Miss Lewis. Merry Christmas.'

Frustrated by her foiled plan, Darcy had opened the present aggressively. Shreds of blue paper had fallen to the floor as Darcy had uncovered a feathered cloak and another charm to add to her collection. The cloak had smelt musty and later, when Darcy had tried it one, she had realised that it was made of falcon feathers.

Not long after, when Darcy had been folding her new cloak and had realised that her bra was missing (her favourite polka-dot bra), Darcy had noticed a note pinned to the inside of the cloak. It had read: 'I went to great lengths to obtain this cloak for you. As payment, I took a personal item of yours. I doubt it will be missed.'

Darcy had growled and had been torn between throwing her presents at the wall or laughing at the hilarity of the situation. Instead, she had cried.

* * *

><p>When the sixth year arrived, Darcy had decided she wanted to forget all about blue presents and Christmas. Instead of spending a quiet Christmas Eve at her Brooklyn apartment watching <em>Carols by Candlelight<em> with her kitten Kara, Darcy had hit the town with her workmates for a night of tequila shots, extravagant cocktails and tabletop dancing.

This is where we find Darcy now: stumbling, drunk and fumbling around in her bag for the keys to her apartment door.

"Monkey balls!" cursed Darcy. It was two a.m. And she really, _really _wanted to go to bed and take her damn heels off. The margaritas were wearing off and she could feel the blisters around her heels.

"Where are you keys?" Darcy crooned into her handbag. "You know you want to let me in."

It was no use. She shouldn't find her keys and consequentially she wouldn't get to her bed or have some bittersweet late night coffee or even stroke Kara. Darcy collapsed unceremoniously onto the hallway floor. With an exasperated sigh, she begun unlacing her stiletto heels. Then she leant against the door. It creaked open.

"What the—"

But her voice broke off as imaginary hands pulled her inside. The door slammed shut behind her and Darcy landed with a loud THUMP! In the middle of her apartment lounge room. Darcy heard the locks slide into place. Fear froze her heart.

It was dark and cold, and the only light that illuminated the room came from the Christmas tree lights behind her, which coruscated between tinsel and baubles. Their light cast long shadows around the room. As Darcy's eyes adjusted to the dark, a gigantic shadow loomed over her.

"Who the hell are you? What the hell are you doing in my lounge room and how the hell did you get in here?"

The words fell off her tongue before Darcy could censor herself and it made her want to punch herself in the face for being so stupid. It wasn't her smartest move considering she was on the floor, but Darcy refused to not know who her potential murderer (she was living is Brooklyn for Christ's sake) was, if it ever came to that.

"Language Miss Lewis," drawled the shadow, extending a hand to her. "That is no way to greet the one who opened your apartment door."

Darcy eyes the hand sceptically. The shadow sighed.

"I don't bite," said the shadow. "I promise."

"Thanks, but no thank," answered Darcy. She pushed herself onto her knees and up onto her feet. Then pulled down the gem of her dress and scrutinised the shadow before her.

Its hand had returned to its side and it stood still with its head cocked to the side inquisitively. It had a tall silhouette, probably around six-foot-one, with wide shoulders, skinny hips and long legs that descended to the floor. From its outline, Darcy discerned that he, it was a safe assumption considering its height and husky voice, was wearing either a long jacket or coat.

"Just so you know," continued Darcy obstinately, "I would've snuck in through the window."

"Liar," retorted the shadow. "You're too short to reach the fire escape ladder, let alone your apartment window."

"Stalker." Darcy let out a huff and crossed her arms. "And you didn't answer my question banana brains."

Darcy was pretty sure the shadow rolled its eyes, but she couldn't be sure. She wasn't wearing her glasses and she had lost her contacts when she had decided to show her friend, Janice, who never wore contacts, how easy it was to take contacts our and put them back again in the nightclub bathroom. Darcy's contacts had fallen down the basin drain. Sue her.

"How I arrived here is none of your concern Miss Lewis," answered the shadow coldly, moving past Darcy and towards her Christmas tree. Darcy turned on her tiptoes, her large eyes following the shadow.

"It's Ms. Not Miss," commented Darcy nonchalantly.

"Why?" asked the shadow. It stopped in front of her Christmas tree now, its back to her—a solid block of darkness that crouched in front of her tree. She heard a rustle of plastic leaves and as the shadow stood up, Darcy noticed that a present was missing from the pile.

"Miss implies that I'm singled and unmarried—"

"Which you are," interjected the shadow calmly.

The shadow hard turned around and was walking towards her now, holding a small parcel in its right hand.

"Besides the point," snapped Darcy with a dismissive wave of her hand. "Ms suggests that I could be married or engaged or—"

"Perpetually husbandless," finished the shadow smugly.

Darcy's eyebrows rose, disappearing underneath her fringe.

"You're becoming more charming by the minutes," drawled Darcy, unimpressed by his candour. The shadow stopped in front of her. "So, you're stealing my presents now?"

He ignored her. Instead, he held the small parcel out towards her.

"Take it," said the shadow tersely, like a petulant child who was being forced to apologise to their younger sibling. Darcy tentatively took the gift from their hand and cradled it in her hands. "It's your Christmas present."

Even in the dim light and devoid of glasses or contacts, Darcy knew the parcel was wrapped in that familiar shimmer azure paper, tied up with a pretty golden lovingly rubbed the organza ribbon between her thumb and forefinger, savouring its smooth centre; a texture that she had memorised over the past five years.

"Open it."

The shadow's command broke Darcy's reverie. She blinked, confused. Then a thought entered the young woman's mind: who was this gift-giving fiend?

"Can you turn on the light please?" asked Darcy sweetly.

The shadow stiffened in the dark.

"No," it said.

"Please?"

"No."

"Can I turn the light on then?"

"No. Just open your present."

"And what? Blindly see what is inside?" mocked Darcy as she shook the present in her hands. It rattled. She gasped. "Oh! That's it! You got me night goggles for Christmas, didn't you? How considerate of you! I really wanted them this year. Even wrote a letter to Santa and everything. How kind—"

"Stop talking _Ms _Lewis," growled the shadow.

"—I mean, it just seems perfect," continued Darcy. "Night goggles. Every woman nee—"

"I tire of your prattle."

And the lights, like magic, turned on. They bathed the room in white light and stars swirled around Darcy's head as her eyes adjusted to the thick leather and fern-green in front of her.

"You!" exclaimed Darcy. Her feet stumbled backwards; five steps and her calves hit the coffee table and she tripped backwards, her ass hitting the wooden furniture with a sharp smack. "Fuck."

Loki pursed his lips disdainfully, like a mother who craved to wash their child's mouth out with soap. Darcy would've given him a piece of her mind, if she wasn't still in shock.

"Yes, it's me," sneered the Norse God. "Happy now?"

He close the distance between himself and Darcy. In one swift movement Loki grabbed her arm, pulling the brunette to her feet.

"Now, open your present."

Darcy shook her head, dazed.

"How? Just how?" asked the woman, the words spilling like dreams.

Loki pinched the bridge of his nose and mumbled something about "mortals" and "stupidity". It was obvious that he was losing his patience, but Darcy was just so overwhelmed by the God of Chaos and Mischief's presence that all logic had leap out of her head and disappeared into the night.

"It's simply really: magic," grumbled Loki. "I'm sure you've heard of it."

"But how?"

"It was easy to concoct a spell that mimicked death," continued the Trickster, exasperation tinging his voice. "All I needed was a plan that I could manipulate to my own desires, which my brother readily, and unwittingly, provided." Loki absently pulled at the cuff of his right sleeve. "I still can't believe he fell for it," added Loki after a moment. "Thor's gullibility knows no bounds."

"Not that," dismissed Darcy impatiently, then asked aggressively: "How do you still look like that?"

"Like what?" asked Loki, slowly.

"So young," whisper Darcy in awe. And it was true. The God looked as if he hadn't aged a single day since Darcy had hacked S.H.I.E.L.D.'s security and seen _that _New York footage nine years ago. His skin was still like stone marble, his jawline like a Grecian sculpture. There were no shadows underneath his eyes, unlike Darcy's, which haunted her mirror every-fucking-day. To say that she was jealous was an understatement.

Loki opened his mouth to answer, but Darcy cut him off:

"And magic isn't going to cut it, pretty boy."

Loki smirked.

"Idunn grows apples in her garden for us."

"And they give you eternal youth?"

"Yes and no," drawled the Trickster, appraising the woman before him. "They delay the ageing process and allow us to live beyond our average lifespan. I have no need for them yet."

Then Darcy slapped him across the face. Hard.

"That's for never thinking that I might've wanted one." She slapped Loki again. "And that's for not giving me one for Christmas, at least once you bastard," finished Darcy with a huff.

Then she pushed past him furiously and stormed around the coffee table, to her blue couch, where she deposited herself and her present unceremoniously. Loki stared at the brunette, a smile curling his lips.

"I like you."

"Whatever," dismissed Darcy and the Norse God grinned. Darcy pulled her azure-coloured present towards her. "Let's open this, shall we?"

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note<strong>:

So, after reading many others' wonderful stories, I decided to tip a toe into the Tasertricks writing sphere. This is the result and I'm hoping that you enjoy it. It will be a slow start as I try to set it up for an inter-realm adventure. Any constructive criticism is completely welcome. Hope you had fun reading that. Have a good one guys! :)


	2. She's Made of Honour

**Summary: **In which Darcy opens her present, Surtur makes an appearance and Loki learns that felines are paramount to good first relations.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Two<strong>

She's Made of Honour

* * *

><p>There were five things that Loki Laufeyson was sure of in the universe — one: that Volstagg the Valiant was one of the greatest misnomers in existence; that Volstagg the Voracious would be much better suited to the voluminous and esurient hero. Two: that too many people wanted him dead and the ransom on his head was so ludicrously high that even Loki was tempted to surrender himself in exchange for the reward.<p>

Three: that masquerading as the All-Father was magically strenuous and (actually) exhausting work, a self-claimed responsibility that Loki had _obviously _underestimated. Four: that over a decade without any intercourse (it's hard to get laid when you're busy ruling the universe) felt positively illegal; and now it was becoming an irksome distraction. And five: Darcy Lewis was the strangest and most unpredictable woman in all of Midgard, a conclusion he made when she abruptly kissed him.

'What was that for?' asked Loki, thoroughly perplexed. Darcy smiled coyly to herself and then laughed. She rubbed her arm, eyeing the unwrapped present before her: the final charm to her set – purple – and a silver pen that morphed into a sword if you said the right incantation.

'Just keeping a promise I made to myself three years ago. So, don't think anything of it,' mused Darcy. Then she sat up straighter and pushed herself off from the couch. 'Let's get some coffee and talk about why you're _really _here.'

Loki didn't stop thinking about it.

* * *

><p>Surtur was having a bad day. No, it wasn't as terrible as that time that Ymir, the oldest and 'most intelligent' Frost Giant in existence, had waged war against, Muspelheim, the realm of the Fire Demons, with his primitive army of Frost Giants and The Casket of Ancient Winters; nor was it as terrible as that time when Odin imprisoned Surtur in the Midgard's core, trapped beneath layers and layers of rock and magic with only time to plan his revenge and escape plan. No. The reason that Surtur was having a bad day was because he was bored. Absolutely and completely bored.<p>

There was nothing to do. Nada. Zip. Zilch. Diddlysquat.

Surtur craved war, bloodshed, and justice, and two hundred years of throwing rocks at a Muspelheim palace wall was antithetical of justice. There were only so many different ways you could throw rocks at a wall, there were only so many different ways you could crush boulders between your hundred-feet-wide hands, and there were only so many executions you could order before it became mass genocide. No, not even an unwarranted attack on Midgard's mortals could satisfy Surtur's thirst now, despite how much he liked crushing their measly bodies between his fingertips.

"More rocks Milord?" said Lítilleldur, interrupting the demon's reverie. The Great Fire Demon turned in his throne to stare at his servant, his body crackling with the movement.

Lítilleldur stood at a mere three hundred feet, small for a Fire Demon, and in his hands he held a large circular plate piled high with rocks of various sizes: jagged ones, sharp ones, smooth ones, round ones, and even ones that looked like cubes on acid. Surtur liked the jagged ones the most.

"No Lítilleldur," the pygmy Fire Demon twitched his nose and the plate of rocks vanished. "Have you received word from the scouts?"

"Not yet, Milord," answered Lítilleldur, his voice faint in comparison to Surtur's sonorous one. It was expected though, Surtur was a one-thousand-feet tall Fire Demon after all; and unlike Lítilleldur, who would live most of his days in Muspelheim to only be slain by a bucket of water, Surtur held a magnificent sword named Twilight and a special place in Ragnarok.

"Ah," hummed Surtur, a small fire flaring out of his nostrils.

It had been six years since Surtur enlisted the help of the Enchanters Three. Though it had pained Surtur, at the time, to have had employed the help of the Aesir witches, there had been consolation in the fact that Brona, Enrakt and Magnir loathed Odin as much as he did.

Surtur had formed a pact with them. An agreement that the moment that that wretched Aesir's throne was vulnerable they would join forces and destroy Asgard to the crumbling mass it should be. The Enchanters would work their magic and grant his army safe passage into Asgard; but for now the three witches paced the All-Father's halls, waiting and occasionally sending word to Surtur about the Aesirs' doings.

Surtur was growing impatient though. It had been six years and the only significant news he knew was that Laufey's bastard son was finally dead and the other one was living on Midgard now. Despite these losses, Asgard was still formidable and Surtur was one not to test Odin and his mighty stick, Gungnir.

"If I may say something Milord," interrupted Lítilleldur. His necked was inclined back to stare up at the Fire Demon, his hands clasped stoically behind his back.

"You may, Lítilleldur."

"There have been murmurings in Jötunheim," said the Fire Demon softly.

Surtur turned to Lítilleldur, his interest piqued. It had been Jötunheim's exposure to the Bifröst eight years ago that had threatened Yggdrasil, the world tree that connected the nine realms, to collapse. It had promised the beginning of Ragnarok, the Twilight of the Gods, until Odin's favourite son, Thor, and his warriors had repaired the damage to Yggdrasil and restored balance to the nine realms once again, preventing Ragnarok for another millennia.

"What murmurs?"

"That their 'Great Elder' has returned," Lítilleldur lowered his voice to a whisper, "and that he wants to request an audience with you."

It was soft and Surtur had to strain his ears to hear the tiny demon.

"And what does this 'Great Elder' look like?" sneered Surtur, unimpressed by the news now. Those Jötuns were always telling stories about how great they were, but they were nothing more than easy-to-defrost icicles without their casket.

"They say he's the oldest of the Ice Giants and made of winter —"

"Cease the poetics Lítilleldur. I care not for them."

Whether the pygmy demon was affronted, Surtur did not know nor did he care. Lítilleldur's face was too small to take any notice of anyway. Instead, Surtur waited for Lítilleldur's next words, and when he finally heard them — "He has magic" — a fiery smile spread across the Great Fire Demon's face.

Clutching his sword Twilight more firmly in his hands, Surtur stood up for the first time in six years and turned to Lítilleldur.

"Come Lítilleldur. We have work to do."

* * *

><p>"Did you want anything?" asked Darcy.<p>

They were both inside Darcy's Brooklyn apartment kitchen where her fluorescent ceiling lights illuminated the room; they highlighted the scratched black and white checkerboard linoleum kitchen floor and the lurid lime-coloured wallpaper that pealed at the corners.

Darcy was preparing coffee on the kitchen bench with her back to Loki, who was seated at the kitchen table in the middle of the room. The Trickster held a contemplative expression as he stared at the items Darcy had dumped on the kitchen table ten minutes ere: an open velvet-lined box containing a silver bracelet with six attached charms inset with coloured gems inside (Loki had just given her another gem, inset with an amethyst this time), a golden hair comb decorated with trumpet-shaped flowers across its bridge, a well-worn leather-bound copy of _Emma_ by Jane Austen, a cerise coloured scarf, Freya's falcon coat (which Loki had stolen many years ago, unbeknownst to Odin) and an elegant silver pen that Loki had just given her.

"Did you want anything?" repeated Darcy, inclining her head over her bare shoulder. She had deposited her jacket on the couch fifteen minutes ago, after she had opened her present and realised that Thor's brother wasn't leaving anytime soon.

Loki ignored her, picking up the silver bracelet. He felt power radiate off it, inaccessible power. It irked him.

"Did you," Loki trailed off.

"Yes pretty boy?"

"Nothing," muttered Loki and returned the bracelet to its initial place. His fingers savoured the feel of the velvet against his skin — prickly and soft. Frigga had loved velvet. Loki had hated velvet.

"Ms Lewis," started Loki.

"Darcy," corrected Darcy. "My name's Darcy." Loki's brow furrowed. "You've made it apparent that you're not gonna leave anytime soon, so stop calling me Ms Lewis and call me by my actual name."

Loki nodded.

He rolled her name around his tongue a few times. It was strange and foreign, like everything about this backwards civilisation, or maybe that was just Miss Lewis. Although Loki had been watching her for six years now, Darcy never ceased to astound him with her idiosyncrasies. Everything about her was foreign — her deadpan voice, her verbose vernacular, her bodacious physique that she usually hid under thick layers of wool during the winter months, and even her obstinate refusal to wear a coat despite the goosebumps that covered her skin.

"You can stop saying my name now. It's fucking creepy," interrupted Darcy as she flicked the kettle on and turned around to face the Chaos God. "You didn't answer my question monkey balls."

Loki didn't know whether to roll his eyes or metaphysically punch her. Instead he settled with an insult.

"Do not assume that I extend you the same familiarity Darcy."

Darcy snorted. How unladylike, thought Loki.

"I assumed so." Darcy crossed her arms over her chest thoughtfully. The action pushed her cleavage upwards, further above the low neckline of her dress that kept them in place. It distracted Loki momentarily.

"I assumed that you would not extend the same familiarity to me," continued the brunette, slowly, thoughtfully. The kettle started boiling behind her. "What should I call you then?"

The Trickster smirked and then leant back in Darcy's kitchen chair. It creaked as Loki appraised the mortal before him.

"All-Father, King Loki, Your Highness or Your Majesty," answered Loki smugly, enjoying the way that Darcy's eyebrows disappeared underneath her fringe and the way her blue eyes widened. Fringes did not suit her, noted Loki, he would have to fix that. Soon.

"Conceited much? I guess you can't expect much less from a megalomaniac orphan," deadpanned Darcy. Loki pursed his lips, wrung his hands together and reined his temper. The kettle finished boiling with a resonate click. "How about I continue calling you Pretty Boy?"

"Will I have a choice on this matter?" asked the Chaos God restrainedly, as he watched Darcy turn around to the kitchen counter again. She pulled two pink polka dot patterned mugs down from the open cupboard above her head, and then closed it. Loki heard the steady dump of dried instant coffee on porcelain.

"Not really," said Darcy firmly, pouring water into the mugs. "You must admit, it's definitely better than Bringer of Death and Destruction."

"Actually, I like that better."

"Ha!"

Silver clinked against porcelain as the kettle water rapidly darkened to an earthy brown. Darcy plopped two sugar cubes into each mug, stirred, and then she turned around holding one mug in each hand.

The brunette approached the table, deposited one mug in front of Loki before she proceeded to the opposite side of the table where she sat down, clasping her polka dot patterned mug between her red-painted nails. Loki eyed the pink polka dot mug in front of him suspiciously.

"I didn't ask for anything."

Darcy smiled wryly. "I assumed."

She cradled the warm beverage between her hands, gently blowing rising steam away from the rim. She took a sip from her mug and scrutinised The God of Chaos and Mischief.

He looked so out of place here in her dingy apartment. His get-up of meticulously woven fabrics and golden-hemmed garments coupled with his sleeked back hair look more suited to a steam-punk-inspired palace (Darcy resisted snorting at that thought) than here. The black base of his clothes only served to further highlight his wrinkle-less alabaster skin, which Darcy was incredibly envious of by the way, while the intermittent dark fern-coloured weaving of his jacket and shirt accentuated his bright green eyes. All in all, his ensemble made him look strangely attractive, in a dangerous, cerebral way.

"Why are you here?"

"According to your hallway plaques, I believe you are the one with the degrees in Political Science and Psychology," drawled the man in question. Darcy rolled her eyes exaggeratedly. "Including a PhD in Psychology."

"And look what it got me," snapped Darcy derisively, gesticulating towards the kitchen around them. "A crappy, teeny-weeny Brooklyn apartment with no air-conditioning," her voice rose and her chest heaved in frustration, "a phenomenal amount of uni debt that even Nevada's most famous prostitute couldn't pay out in a decade," a flush passed into her pale cheeks and her eyes light in indignation, "and most of all: a job where I am overlooked because I'm a woman among chauvinistic men who can't take me seriously because they're too busy looking at my boobs or my arse!" Darcy paused infinitesimally, and then breathed deeply — once, twice, thrice; then she added wryly: "Although I don't blame them, I have a damn fine arse."

"And breasts," added The Trickster God with a sly smile.

"That's just assumed," said Darcy returning his smile with a dismissive wave of her hand. "You still haven't answer my question banana brains."

"My, my, you're very persistent aren't you?" teased Loki.

"What can I say? Persistence is the one thing a PhD teaches you, apart from contemplating prostitution after seeing your student loans total," quipped Darcy.

It was true though; albeit having four degrees before the age of thirty, Darcy was over one hundred thousand dollars in debt from student loans alone, and despite her recent full time employment she hadn't even cut a quarter of her debts. The thought depressed her, which is why Darcy had adopted her kitten Kara, to distract her from her seemingly infinite debts (and because she was perpetually single, so it just made sense, okay?).

Thinking of Kara — "Where's Kara?" she asked. It was the God's turn to raise his eyebrows.

"Who?"

"Kara. My cat," answered Darcy, as she pushed her chair back and stood up. She hadn't seen Kara since she left her apartment last evening, and her cat had a knack for knowing when Darcy was home. She would always meet Darcy at the door when she arrived home, no matter the time, with soft meows and purrs while she slinked between her owner's legs.

"Oh."

Darcy turned sharply to Loki, who wore one of the greatest poker faces in history.

"What did you do to her?"

"What do you mean?"

"What did you do to her?" repeated Darcy, more aggressively this time, anger bubbling in her chest. Loki wrung his hands around each other and pulled at his sleeve, like a little kid being caught out by their mother.

"I thought she was a stray, so I put her outside, where all other strays belong," answered Loki.

"What?" deadpanned Darcy. "I love her more than my iPod! How could you even think she was a stray? What stray cat looks like it should be competing for America's Next Top Cat Model? I brush her fluffy fur everyday!"

"You never had a cat before!"

"That's right, because you know everything about my 'fascinating' life don't you?"

"It's not my fault if you don't write everything in that pathetic journal of yours."

"You read my journal?" Darcy huffed. "If I had something to throw at you right now—"

"It'd miss. I've seen your pitch Ms Lewis and it's nothing impressive," quipped Loki. The buxom woman moved rapidly around the kitchen table and stopped in front of a now standing Loki, who held an expression of utter contempt. Blue eyes met green eyes fiercely, as the pair entered the second most intense staring contest in history. The first most intense staring contest had been between a fox and small poodle in Devon, England, two years ago. It had lasted forty-five minutes and two seconds before the fox had pounced and devoured the dog for a light afternoon snack. In terms of this current staring contest: Loki was winning.

"You," Darcy poked Loki in the chest, who looked unimpressed but remained stoic, "are going to fix this. Right. Now," finished Darcy, adding two extra pokes for good measure.

"If I do 'fix this', will you come to Asgard?" asked The Trickster Lord impassively. Confusion twisted the furious look on Darcy's face into a grimace.

"What?"

"If I do 'fix this', will you come to Asgard?" repeated Loki. Silence settled awkwardly between the pair as the brunette's mouth repetitively opened and closed in thought. It suddenly made all sense — the presents and his mysterious return from the dead.

"You utter, selfish bas—"

"If you could stop imitating an insipid fish for a moment, I could tell you why you're required on Asgard," interjected Loki nonchalantly, breaking his gaze from the shorter woman, thus ending the second most intense staring contest in history.

"That's why you're here isn't it? To kidnap me to Asgard?"

"Kidnap is a strong word, Ms Lewis," the Chaos God twisted his lips contemplatively. "I would say 'coerce' you to come to Asgard."

"Okay. Kidnap."

"No. Coerce," said Loki, stressing the word 'coerce' with a roll of his large green eyes. Darcy crossed her arms over the chest, distracting the Trickster for the second time that night.

"Same thing. Whatever," said the brunette as she noticed where his gaze was. "And stop looking at my boobs you perve." Loki blushed and returned his gaze to her face. "Now, if I agree to come to Asgard with you, what's in it for me?"

Loki smirked, mirth dancing in his eyes.

"I knew there was a reason that I liked you."

"Apart from my boobs," interjected Darcy.

"Yes, apart from your breasts, which look positively sublime, I knew there was a reason that I liked you," said Loki, correcting himself with a smug grin. He stood straighter now, assuming an air of thick arrogance that made Darcy feel like choking or popping his ego. "If you do agree to come to Asgard, your kitten will be returned."

"Is that all?" asked Darcy, unimpressed. "I've had ex-boyfriends provide better bribes than that."

"I will return your favourite polka dot patterned bra."

"You gotta offer more than that pretty boy; I know you're supposed to be dead and that you probably killed your daddy to get that imaginary crown on your head," remarked Darcy, as she inspected her nails absently. They had chipped over the night and the thought of repainting them filled Darcy utter indolence.

"You can bring your kitten to Asgard with you," offered Loki pithily.

"Not enough, pretty boy."

"I can absolve all of your educational debts."

"Nah, that'd look suspicious. S.H.I.E.L.D. would be suspicious, and last thing you want is S.H.I.E.L.D. popping 'round here in their dapper suits, realising I'm not here, then prompting them to investigate the abduction of Ms Darcy Cailtin Lewis and her cat Cara. So try again, orphan."

The Mischief God clenched and unclenched his hands, frustration knitting his thick eyebrows together. And Darcy found it so goddamn adorable.

"Curse the Nine Realms woman, what could you possibly desire?" asked Loki after a few moments.

Darcy lifted her gaze from her nails. Then she beamed and cocked her head to the side, making her dark waves fly over her left shoulder, hiding her bare skin from curious green eyes.

"Now, that's the question I wanted to hear," said Darcy with a wink.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note<strong>:

Firstly, the kiss is literally just Darcy keeping her word to herself after receiving her present on the third year — 'That year Darcy had vowed to herself that she would kiss whoever gave her these presents' — and subtly proving to Loki that Darcy is a woman of honour.

Secondly, I'm terrible at updating (obviously), but I will try to have the next chapter up in a fortnight and start updating regularly. I've written most of an Agent of Asgard arch, if that's anything. However, I'll leave that up to you. Comments, criticisms are welcome. Hope you're all well, xx

P.S. If you're not following me over under the AO3, please do. I'll be posting a one-shot soon.


End file.
